Do Over
by Tarafina
Summary: "For future reference, should you ever see me this disheveled, only bad things have come from my superior talent of psychic abilities…" PxR


**Title**: Do-Over  
**Category**: Glee  
**Genre**: Romance/Supernatural/Drama/Humor  
**Ship**: Rachel/Puck  
**Rating**: Teen  
**Warning(s)**: Strong Violence, Coarse Language, Sexual Innuendo  
**Word Count**: 5,787  
**Summary**: "For future reference, should you ever see me this disheveled, only bad things have come from my superior talent of psychic abilities…"

**_Do-Over_**  
-1/1-

Rachel Berry was a little bit psychic. Not _psych**o**_, though some may beg to differ. No, she sometimes knew that the phone was about to ring, and who was on the other end; from Great Aunt Doris in Cincinnati to someone from the Glee club. There were even occasions where she would be reminiscing over an old movie she really enjoyed, feeling as though she would enjoy watching it again, and suddenly it would just so happen to be on TV later that evening. And there were a million and three other instances that most would just chalk up to a heavy case of déjà vu, but Rachel was absolutely certain that there was something special about her. She was a part of a very small group of people in the world that had psychic abilities. They may not be _honed_ yet and so far they hadn't told her very much, but she just knew that one day they would accomplish something great. And as she'd declared before, being a part of something special made_ you_ special.

She woke that morning as she did any other. With a strict regimen planned of working out, eating healthy, facing a school filled mostly with her tormentors, winning a solo in glee, and just generally giving something back to the community at large. From the very moment she opened her eyes, things did not go according to plan…

One, they had lost power some time in the night and so her alarm clock did not go off as set. Instead, she woke with little more than thirty minutes to shower, get dressed, and be at school. Jumping from her bed with a cry of discontent, she hurried toward her closet. She'd forgotten last night to lay out clothes; it didn't happen often, but she'd been working late on her geometry homework and usually had time in the morning to plan out the right outfit. Tossing a skirt and sweater to her bed, she rushed into the shower, turning on the water only to find it lukewarm with little chance of it getting better. She had no time to curse this, however, as she still had to wash her hair and somehow blow-dry it in record time.

There was a knock in the distance and then she heard one of her father's muffled voices, no doubt coming in to make sure she was up for school. "Don't worry, daddy!" she called out to him reassuringly as she scrubbed shampoo into her hair quickly. "I'm getting ready! I'll be fine."

She didn't hear his response but she was in and out of the shower in six minutes flat. With a frown, she realized there was absolutely no chance of her drying her hair and so she ran back into her room to dress, rolling a pair of her favorite socks up her calves, donning the skirt, smoothing out her sweater and sending herself a winning smile through her mirror in hopes of pepping herself up for the day. When she left her room, she tore the large numbered paper sporting **20** in block format from her wall-calendar before walking through the doorway and stumbling quickly as her leg snagged a loose nail, tearing that same pair of socks she'd earlier been thinking were her favorite. Dropping the paper to the ground with a huff, she stomped her foot in annoyance. With a quick shake of her head, she took a calming breath and continued forward. There was no time and she had to be at school in twenty minutes.

Her dad and daddy were nowhere to be found; she assumed they had either returned to bed or left for work. While she regretted not being able to say goodbye, time was of the essence, she grabbed a vegan-friendly energy bar from the pantry for breakfast and made her way out to her car. Luck was truly frowning on her, however, when it would not start for her. Making a clicking noise that she was absolutely certain had caused a tick in her left eye, she slapped her hands against the steering wheel and prayed for a miracle. On the sixth go around of turning the key, the car finally whirred to life. Clapping her hands, Rachel Berry pulled out of the driveway and was on her way, smiling as though someone had just told her she'd been nominated for a Tony.

When she pulled into WMHS, she was feeling a little calmer. The quad was mostly empty, with only eight minutes left before the first bell, and so she hopped out of her red Prius, lugged her pink carry bag out of the back and half-ran across the parking lot, pausing only once to look at the beat-up blue pick-up on the other side that screamed _Puck_ to all who looked. Chewing her lip as she drew closer to the school, she wondered not for the first time, in fact she'd spent most of the night before contemplating just this thing, what his next pick-up line might be. As the last three weeks had been spent turning down Noah's incessant suggestions that they date (again). Admittedly, it wasn't as if he were fawning or begging or anything that would take away from his noted and impeccable record as a _'badass._' But she had thought the very first, firm 'no' would be enough. Apparently, she was wrong…

_"'Sup, Berry?" Noah Puckerman leaned against the locker next to hers looking entirely too comfortable in his own skin. For a seventeen year old boy who had yet to truly conquer anything but Lima, Ohio, he looked confident enough that one might think him 'worldly.' And she supposed, pertaining to some things, he had the kind of knowledge some would envy. While others (namely, just about every single female in McKinley) had gotten a taste of that experience first hand. She did not consider herself part of such masses, as her brief relationship with Noah was innocent making out (she preferred to ignore the voice inside of her head that told her that 'innocent' making out was the most passionate and intense relations she'd ever had with any boy, and she was fairly certain it always would be)._

_Drawing her eyes away from the alphabetically stacked order of her school books, Rachel looked into the hazel eyes peering back at her. Rather primly, she replied, "I have a number of replies should that question be literal, but otherwise I would have to say 'Very little, Noah.'"_

_He blinked at her._

_Yes, she was aware that was not the response he was awaiting._

_"Right…" he drawled, apparently deciding to gloss over her natural lack of 'normal behavior.' She wasn't sure if she appreciated that yet. "So Friday," he said a little more enthusiastically, "Me, you and very little space between our mouths."_

_Her brows furrowed. Because A. That was not a question, but more of a statement. And B. While she did not have plans for Friday, per se, she definitely hadn't thought he would be suggesting he be a part of them. Thus… "No, thank you," she said decidedly._

_He blinked, again, because apparently she was very good at surprising him. That she did appreciate. "Saturday then."_

_She shook her head slowly. "Not that I don't appreciate your forward and confident manner, but I'm going to have to decline the offer."_

_He smirked. While not the reaction she would expect from most boys, it was what she was used to seeing from him. _

_"Berry… Are you seriously turning me down?"_

_"I believe I am..." She cocked her head, half-smiling to herself. "Upon reflecting on my previous answers… _Yes,_ yes I am _definitely _turning you down."_

_He laughed. Blunt and low and a rumble that burst from his chest and made her stomach flutter in a very unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome, way. She would have squirmed if she hadn't known he'd notice and like it. "Okay…" He nodded, backing away and licking his lips thoughtfully._

_She didn't know why she was disappointed he was giving in so easily. Okay, perhaps she did and she didn't want to admit it to herself. Regardless, as he tucked his hands deep into his jeans' pockets and her eyes fell, she felt that same flutter in her stomach when she caught side of tanned skin and Joe Boxers. She bit her lip when the desire to drag her teeth across his hip bone suddenly rose up in her._

_"Bring it," he suddenly said, drawing her eyes back up._

_Her brows furrowed and she realized that by turning him down she had essentially made herself _challenging _for him… She debated correcting him but then he winked at her and she wondered just how long she'd last and planned to see it through for an answer._

Walking down the hallway of McKinley, she wondered if the flush of her skin was noticeable. The memory of his advances had warmed her chest and spread through her body, coursing through her veins in a manner she couldn't (wand wasn't entirely sure she wanted to) stop. While that was the first, and likely the most polite, it wasn't remotely close to the last time he would suggest they get together. In fact, she wasn't sure if he was bent on surprising or arousing her, but each day he came up with a new way to talk her into giving him another chance.

_"C'mon, Berry, lemme take you to dinner and while you're criticizing the menu, I can be eating something a little juicier…" He trailed his fingers along her hip and across the waist of her skirt until he was just inches above where he was suggesting he bury his mouth for a good long while. "I'll make you scream and it'll be thanks enough."_

She swallowed tightly, shaking her head as if to rid not only the suggestion but the very image of him doing just that from her mind. If she spent hours playing it out in her mind later that evening (and many more after that), she chalked it up to being a perfectly normal teenage female with an average sexual drive for her age.

It wasn't that she _wanted _to turn him down, exactly. She and Finn had been very much broken up since December and there was very little chance that _The_ _Finchel Show _was going to be revived anytime soon. When the pang of disappointment in her chest was noticeably absent, she found herself smiling. Being that it was now September, she was fairly confident that her feelings toward Finn had basically dissolved. She would always feel something for him, as he was truly her first love, but those warm chest pains that used to make her want to do back flips whenever he so much as _looked _at her were long gone. She didn't even flinch when he walked by with Brittney holding his hand.

What she felt for Noah was complicated, however. Because she knew that most of the time, the boy asking her out was _Puck_, the self-proclaimed sex-shark looking for another victim to add to a long list of notches on his bedpost. But there were occasions when Noah sprung forth, looking a little more earnest and trying a little harder to get her attention, suggesting something more than making out or hooking up or making her scream his name until she was hoarse and he was licking his fingers of her.

Her chest flared with heat. Perhaps it was his influence on her the last few weeks, but the very thought of him brought all kinds of illicit thoughts to mind. And being a strong, independent seventeen year old girl (woman), she didn't feel embarrassed for these emotions or urges, but there were occasions when the sheer intensity of them made her weak in the knees.

In any case, she wondered as she walked down the hall, her pink bag bouncing on the floor behind her, if it would be Noah or Puck that she ran into this morning. As if he'd heard her thoughts, a ding on her blackberry drew her attention and she fished it out of her coat pocket.

_sup, JewJewB? ur almost late. apocalypse cummin? :P_

She rolled her eyes. Because One. She's told him before that "_JewJewB"_ was not as clever as he thought it was. And two, he wrote 'cummin' specifically because he knew it would make her blush (which it did).

She texted back quickly, and without that ghastly shorthand. _I'm not late… My perfect attendance record is still intact. And your grammar is absolutely appalling, Noah!_

She knew somewhere in the school, Noah Puckerman was snorting, rolling his eyes at her. For some reason, that made her smile.

She was turning right at the corner to the hallway that housed their lockers, though on opposite sides, and that smile brightened when she caught sight of him, leaning against his neighbor's locker while chatting with Mike Chang, nodding absently as he texted her back. Just as he hit send, he looked up, caught sight of her and for a moment it wasn't a smirk but a grin. Her stomach fluttered in an all too familiar way. She started toward him but then someone was calling his name.

"Puck!" Loud and unfamiliar and not at all friendly.

And Noah dragged his eyes away from her, his brow quirking cockily as he turned and suddenly Rachel Berry was absolutely certain that slow-motion had enacted in her real life. Because his body turned, his eyes darted to the left, and hers moved too, falling on a tall, thin figure standing in the middle of the hall, shakily holding up a silver gun. And she swore she heard the snap-bang long before the finger squeezed. Her heart clenched, head swiveling back, and she watched, horrified, as blood bloomed center across Noah's chest, spreading quickly across his muscle shirt.

She'd dropped the handle of her trolley and was racing across the hallway, feet eating up linoleum faster than what seemed humanly possible. The slow-motion moment lasted long enough for her to see Noah slam back against the lockers and then fall to his knees, the strength draining from him swiftly, and finally he was laid out on his back.

And there were screams, loud and high and terrified, and she was running against the crowd, toward him, toward the boy with the gun, rather than with everyone else who was searching for an exit, racing away from death. She fell next to him, with so much force that she seemed to slide across the floor and bounce off of him.

He groaned, his eyes fluttering wide and then squeezing shut and then open again.

He stared up at her, his mouth opening and closing, finding and then losing words. "R-Rach?" He was reaching for her, grabbing at her shoulder, fingers tangled in the sleeve of her jacket. He smirked rather lazily, dizzily. "Didn' even throw an'body in dumpster lately…" he muttered, as if he was trying to understand _why _and couldn't figure out a reason. She didn't think turning around and getting an answer was important right then.

"I-I know," she murmured instead, leaning in close to him. She sniffled, tears slipping out without pause and splattering on his cheeks.

His nose wrinkled. "Fuckin' hate cryin'," he slurred.

She nodded but she couldn't stop herself.

Footsteps, loud and heavy, still pounded down hallways elsewhere. Near but far. She couldn't say for sure what happened to the shooter. Mike wasn't there anymore and she wondered if he went to get help or just saved himself. She didn't bother looking back to see, didn't care if that boy who had done this was standing there, gun aimed at her, ready to finish or continue with what he had started.

"Baby, stop fuckin' cryin'… Dun't even _hurt_," he lied, half-smirking.

His eyes were open but glassy and staring but not seeing her.

"Liar," she breathed brokenly. She stroked his Mohawk even as she complained, "Lying is _completely _unbecoming, Noah. I don't care if you think it's badass, this is not the time to—"

His sputtering laugh cut her off. "When I get outta the hospital… me an' you…" He flicked a hand up, fingers tangling and then hanging heavy from her hair. "Fuck BreadstiX, take you somewhere good… Somewhere vegan…"

She leans down, presses her quivering lips to his forehead like she did when they'd dated and he'd been slushied. She kissed his cheeks and his chin and she muffled a sob when her mouth covered his, shaking and wet with her tears.

He barely had the strength to respond in kind.

"Takes gettin' shot t' get a kiss?" He chuckled so low it was hardly a hiss. "Better be worth it, Berry-Babe."

She felt his warm blood seep through her jacket and her sweater, felt it against her skin. Bile rose up in her throat and she thought that this was all wrong. It was all just so _wrong! _This was _not_ how her lifetime movie was meant to play out; she got the boy, they flew off to New York (proverbial sunset), Puckleberry for endgame, and the audience gives it a standing ovation because yes, while clichéd, they were "a couple of hot jews" who could be "awesomely badass" together, in the words of one Noah Puckerman.

But then Noah's hand was slack in her hair and his breathing sort of evened out and his smirk faded and his face smoothed out and she_ knows_… There was no happy ending.

When she screamed, it was full of anguish, of loss and desperation, and she used every single vocal lesson she'd ever had to make sure the whole fucking world heard her.

And yes, she swore in her thoughts, but she thought he might be proud of that.

Things were black for all of three seconds before Rachel Berry opened bleary eyes and found herself tucked away in her bed. The weight of what happened had her stomach sinking so fast, she was absolutely certain she was going to outwit her lack of gag-reflex and vomit exponentially. Instead, she found herself staring at the blinking red **12:00** on her alarm clock that told her the electricity had gone out and her alarm had failed her. Seeing the flower-clock on her wall, she noted that it was the exact same time she had woke up yesterday, unusually enough. What were the odds that the electricity would fail two nights in a row? How did she even get home? And what happened between her apparent blacking-out and waking up this morning. She expected to at least see her dads hovering, worried over her state of mind. After all, a boy had literally come to school and killed at least one person. A person who had died right before her eyes, in her arms, the last words out of his mouth being _Berry-Babe_…

She swallowed back her tears as she sat up, her entire body shaking with the force of bone-deep loss. Her eyes darted to and fro and she found herself utterly _lost_. There was no amount of time on her elliptical or singing for MySpace or planning for her Broadway career that would make her feel like any of this was okay. Her fingers curled painfully into the bedspread beneath her. Noah Puckerman was dead. Somebody had shot and killed Puck. A bullet had taken away her Noah.

She sobbed, suddenly and thickly and her entire body convulsed with the force of it. She wanted so badly to wrap her arms around herself and cry until her heart didn't feel like it was shattered into a million little pieces. But then there was a knock at her door, soft but insistent.

"Bunny, sweetie, is that you? It's daddy… We just woke up! I thought you'd be gone already. It seems the electricity failed us last night. Honey, you only have twenty minutes to get to school… I know how much a perfect attendance record means to you."

A perfect attendance record?

She found herself baffled.

While yes, yesterday that had seemed incredibly important, today it seemed to pale in comparison. She rose to her feet, suddenly feeling like she wanted to scream at her father for thinking of such trivial things when Noah Puckerman had _died! _Just as she was reaching for the door to her bedroom, intent on ripping it open and yelling at her dad for his utter lack of understanding, she paused. Her calendar, the large black and white numbered paper she tore off each morning to remind herself that it was a new day… The one she'd torn off yesterday morning, a half an hour before she saw Noah die, the one marked **20 **was still there. Pristine and in place, with no sign that it had ever been ripped off and left on the floor.

She swallowed thickly and pulled the door open, peering up at her daddy with hopeful, desperate eyes. "Daddy, what day is it?"

"Bunny?" he gasped, staring at her face and her puffy eyes. "Are you okay? Sweetie? What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, daddy, please, _what _day is it?"

He stared at her in concern. "The twentieth…" He tipped his head. "It's Thursday, sweetie… Why? Was there something we missed? Did you and the Glee club have a concert we didn't make it to? Whatever it is, sweetie, I'm sorry! We'll make it up to you!"

Her breath stuttered in her lungs. The twentieth! September 20th! As in _yesterday_, or what she thought was yesterday. The day Noah died. The day she ran into every roadblock imaginable before getting to school just before her perfect attendance was thrown out the window only to see the boy she had fallen for die before her eyes. She looked at the clock, at the time ticking away quickly – _too quickly_ – and suddenly she was off like a shot. It didn't matter that she wasn't wearing proper clothes, that she was dressed in her pink spaghetti strap top and tiny yellow shorts with ducks on them. It didn't matter that she wasn't wearing shoes or she hadn't showered or her hair was an absolute mess, likely resembling a very unusual bird's nest. Instead, she hopped into her car and when it stalled not once but five times, she cursed and slapped her hands against the steering wheel, praying that it would be like last time, that the sixth try was her charm.

It roared to life and she was pulling out so quickly, she was pretty sure her dad was going to revoke her license if his standing on the stoop yelling her name in shock was anything to go by. She made it to school in record time, leaving the red door of her car wide open as she ran quickly across the pavement, too worried to care that it was freezing cold beneath her bare feet or the rocks that bit and scored the soles of her feet. She ran inside, stumbling as she bumped into nameless people, shoving and moving, and yelling "Get out of my way!" before running through the halls with little care to what they were calling her or how they pointed and muttered about how much of a freak she was. All of that didn't matter.

She glanced at the time and her heart clenched. What if she was too late? She sped up, ignoring the concerned faces of glee kids that looked at her, wondering why in the world she was wearing pajamas or so unkempt or who she was looking for. Instead, she came around the corner in a flash and spotted him. Alive, smiling, breathing, leaning against his locker with little care in the world. And then he caught her eye and his brow furrowed as if he was wondering what in the hell happened to her. He stood up quickly, half-smiling in confusion. And the sob welled in her throat as tears sprung to her eyes. He looked wary then, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to comfort her or cut his losses and run. But then he shrugged and he opened his arms and she thought this was the Noah that had been asking her out rather than the Puck who wanted to get into her pants. She smiled, watery, and started toward him. But then there was a flash of something out of the corner of her eyes and she remembered _why _she was so scared for him, why she was standing in the middle of a school that already had entirely too many reasons to hate her in her pajamas and looking like the freak they so liked to tell her she was. And she was running, she was racing across the hallway as quickly as her long legs would take her.

"Puck!" she heard and his head began swiveling in the direction of that angry, faceless voice.

And then Rachel was _there_; she was in his arms, her own wrapped around his neck, the force of her body hitting his had turned him quickly. And for one sharp second there was nothing and she thought, '_Wouldn't it just be my unfortunate luck that this was all a very bad dream and there was no shooter but just an overly imaginative seventeen year old girl looking absolutely ridiculous?' _But then the snap-bang entered her ears at seemingly the same moment the bullet lodged in her shoulder and the fire of it literally made her entirety ache with agony. The thunderous terror of everyone running for cover filled her ears then and she knew that the rest of McKinley had done just as she'd remembered; cut and ran. She couldn't blame them.

Only this time, she knew what happened to the shooter, because Mike Chang hadn't run for help, he'd tackled the boy with the gun, knocking it from his hand like the ninja Puck liked to constantly infer he was. And then Sam and Mike were pinning him to the ground while Finn's lumbering and overly tall frame was racing for help. She wondered why she never noticed any of that before and then she looked up and saw Noah staring back at her, those expressive hazel eyes boring into her with such intensity that she thought, for a moment, that the pain was entirely worth it. And then her back hit the floor and she decided that was quite possibly the _stupidest _idea she'd ever had.

A fiery pain spread from her bleeding shoulder through the rest of her body and she whimpered, clamping her jaw tight and unwilling to close her eyes against the onslaught of tears. She needed to see his face, she needed to see his chest rise and fall and all the signs that he was fine. There was blood on his sweater and she reached for it, fearing that she failed. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her brows furrowed.

"Are you fucking serious?" he breathed out, staring down at her with wide, hazel eyes. "The fuck, Berry?" He looked down at her and then back down the hall to where he'd seen her just seconds before. "How'd you even—?"

She waved her hand slightly. "I'm a little bit psychic," she said, as if it explained everything away.

"Yeah?" he rasped, eyes darting to the bullet hole in her shoulder. "You gonna make it outta this?"

She frowned. In all honesty, she hadn't thought much past the fact that Noah Puckerman could not die, not on her watch. So while throwing her body in the way of a bullet had seemed the most logical act at the time, she couldn't say with all authority whether it was really all that smart. After all, as much as she cared for him (and she thought the open wound currently spilling blood beneath her might be very firm proof of that fact), she had worked all her life to be a Broadway star and now it seemed she may have thrown it all away for a boy who likely only wanted in her pants (up her skirt). "If I don't," she decided, "Promise me you'll make sure a movie is made of my life." She stared up at him, brows raised high with determination. "I want _good _actors, Noah. But fresh, unexplored talent. Like Ellen Paige pre-Juno!"

He laughed, but it was off somehow, less thick and full like she was used to. It was cracked and blunt and it worried her. "You're crazy," he murmured, in an oddly affectionate tone.

She stared up at the off-color ceiling above, because the expression on his face made her heart stutter and she was fairly sure it might cause increased blood flow. "I can see the opening credits now," she told him. "_Rachel Berry_, and a gold star, of course, for metaphorical purposes."

He nodded jerkily. "Y'know, for someone who's supposedly _dying_, you're talkin' a lot."

"Oh, and I suppose you would bear it with stoic reserve?" she scoffed, wrinkling her nose.

"More badass than planning my biography," he returned.

Ignoring him, she sighed. "If we were older, I'd demand that Idina Menzel played me, but should you not find a yet undiscovered ingénue awaiting her opening and groundbreaking role, I ask that you use your better judgment to find someone fit to play me… I'd thought once to do it myself, but current dilemmas argue differently." She winced as he applied pressure, ruining his perfectly good Letterman's jacket in the process.

"Shit Berry, you can't die the hero." His jaw ticked. "I'll never live this down."

She snorted indelicately. "How very self-involved, Noah…" She stared up at him and watched as his usual smirk faded. He put up a brave front, she thought, but his _Puck_-mask was slipping. She touched his hand, her bloody fingers sliding against his. "I expect you to sing at my funeral," she told him. His lips curled faintly in a smile. "Something both modern and classic. Acoustic, of course. Your skill with the guitar is something to be awed at." She bit her lip as disappointment filled her. "I'll truly miss it."

"That the only skill of mine you'll miss?" he teased faintly.

"You were a very adept kisser," she mused.

He grinned. "When you get outta the hospital, we're going on that date, Berry…" He stared at her seriously. "You can't tell me you're not interested and then take a fucking bullet for me… Shit's not kosher."

Rachel pursed her lips, darting her eyes away. "Friends bite bullets," she argued dismissively.

"Not _real _ones!" he growled.

She scoffed and regretted the fact that she could neither cross her arms over her chest nor stomp her foot petulantly. "I hardly see your point… I was merely looking out for Glee club." She sniffed. "If you were to die, horrific and tragic as that would undoubtedly be, just _think_ of how little practicing would get done!" She shook her head firmly. "We'd have to find a replacement, Noah! And with Nationals so—"

His lips smothered her argument, smoothly slanting across her own and effectively shutting her up. At first, she was absolutely stunned; no coherent thought managed to fill her mind. He tasted just as good as ever; the warmth of his mouth and of his tongue and the faint graze of his teeth against her lips… If this was heaven, she would officially sign up with little to no qualms. But then his thumbs were stroking her cheeks and his harsh, panting breath was mingling with hers between their parted mouths and she opened her eyes to look up at the hazel gaze staring back at her. While she felt good and warm and full of fuzzy content, she could still see the fear and worry in his eyes.

"That won't always work," she murmured.

He chuckled faintly, the reverberation against her mouth made her toes curl. "We'll see about that…"

She wrinkled her nose. "While I look forward to kissing you in future, I will warn that you should you decide to engage in this relationship you've been endlessly hounding me to give a second chance, there will be many moments where you would like me to stop talking."

He grinned. "Right now, I really just want you to stop _bleeding_…"

She flushed. "I briefly forgot I had been shot…" Her lips pursed. "If this ridiculously clichéd moment somehow hinders my future career as a dancer, I will vindictively exact revenge on that boy," she swore darkly. "While I'm sure he's been bullied and beaten down, and trust me – I can _relate!_, that is absolutely no excuse for the complete lack of control he has when handling an automatic weapon… And I would like it stated for the record, that while you were best known for your merciless bullying, it has been a very long time since then and I don't appreciate his insinuation that you deserved to be killed for actions you have forthwith desisted and been paying a penance for."

He blinked at her. "Did I mention you were nuts?"

"A variation of," she agreed.

He nodded. "Bat shit crazy, babe."

Before she could argue, paramedics came racing down the hallway, stretcher in hand.

"Sir, please move out of the way."

He gripped Rachel's hand tight. "'m coming with you," he promised.

She smiled up at him, her worry showing through. "For future reference, should you ever see me this disheveled, only bad things have come from my superior talent of psychic abilities…"

He laughed slightly. "Shit, B, after this I'm locking you up somewhere safe!"

"My talent cannot be contained, Noah Puckerman!" she declared, even as they strapped her to the body board and lifted her up into the air to get her out of the school.

He jogged next to them, holding her hand all the while. "Save it for your biopic, Rach."

She smiled. "Who do you suppose will play you?" she wondered, wishing she could clap her hands happily before she rambled on about the many actor she thought could suitably portray him.

Noah smirked at her indulgently, handling her crazy talk like a pro the whole ride to the hospital. Although she was shot and had to witness one of the worst moments of McKinley history, _twice_, she couldn't say that the outcome wasn't somewhat worth it. She did, after all, get the boy. And she had a lifelong scar with a story all its own; a do-over of epic proportions, one she would thank her lucky stars for the rest of her long, happy life.

[**End.**]


End file.
